


Held Him Captive In My Kiss

by NotAnAngel97



Series: In Any Place in Time, You Are Mine [2]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Art Dealer!Napoleon, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt Napoleon, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, M/M, Napoleon Whump, Protective Illya, U.N.C.L.E.!Illya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-01
Updated: 2016-09-01
Packaged: 2018-08-12 10:41:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7931560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotAnAngel97/pseuds/NotAnAngel97
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things aren't easy when you're dating a spy and Napoleon knows all about it. His relationship with Illya is on fairly shaky ground. But when Napoleon is kidnapped as leverage against Illya, Illya will tear the world apart to bring him home.</p><p>Sequel to Would It Really Kill You If We Kissed?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Held Him Captive In My Kiss

**Author's Note:**

> Please read the tags. Possible trigger warnings apply, see end notes for more details. Title from the song 'Hurricane,' by Halsey. Darker fic than the first. Enjoy!
> 
> Special shout-outs to kaijusizefeels, who give me the motivation to continue this as an AU series and Roostertease_it for beta-reading
> 
> Don't own, sigh.

Napoleon winced as he knocked into a coffee table. His shin throbbed and he was sure there was going to be a bruise there tomorrow. Who thought slabs of marble made good table tops anyway? The normally put-together man must have made quite a sight, dashing through the hallways of the Agora Gallery. One hand rooted through the jacket of his navy three-piece while the other was raised to display the current time on his Rolex. Napoleon stifled a groan.

Finally locating his ringing iPhone, he hurriedly answered it. He tucked it between his ear and shoulder as he pushed through the glass front doors.

‘I know, I know, I’m terribly late. Davenport just _would not_ stop talking.’ Napoleon explained. He lifted his briefcase over his head to shelter him from the fat raindrops hammering down on New York. The skies were nearly black from the dark rainclouds, and was that lightening Napoleon saw? God, he hoped not. His rescue dog, an Alaskan Malamute named Clark ([x](https://encrypted-tbn2.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQzviCdzv3fXmipJ-buq4fuFyl0-dzLTMz7W51zAkTnP9iz-0K9Ppo-8g)), absolutely abhorred thunderstorms and had taken to hiding under Napoleon’s covers during them. How Illya had talked him into adopting the abandoned puppy still mystified Napoleon. Probably with several blow jobs. Still, Clark was good company for when Illya was away. Which felt like all the time, recently, he thought darkly.

‘You said you’d be home by six. It is quarter to seven. We will never make reservation now.’ Illya ground out. Napoleon could picture him, wearing a path into his mahogany hardwood floors as he paced anxiously. Sighing, he attempted the unenviable task of trying to flag down a cab.

‘I’m sorry. You know how these rich idiots can be. Can never stop blathering, wasting everybody’s time.’ Maybe he was being too harsh, Napoleon mused. It’s not like he hadn’t gone into this relationship with his eyes wide open. Look at how the two of them met! Illya had made it clear his work came first and Napoleon had accepted that. And he did try so hard when he was here.

‘You say this as if you are not one of them.’ Illya derided, voice harsh. Napoleon’s lips curled into a grimace. Looks like he had spoken too soon. A car swept through a puddle, drenching him in muddy rainwater. He shook his hair out of his eyes and surveyed his dripping suit with dismay. Fantastic, he thought. Because he wasn’t miserable enough.

‘You know what, forget it, Illya. I’m not having this conversation right now. We’ll talk when I get home.’ Napoleon snorted. ‘If you’re even still there.’ He added under his breath.

‘Fine.’ Illya snarled, hanging up. Napoleon let his eyes drift closed from frustration. He was seriously fighting the urge to hurl it away. He hated fighting with Illya. Unfortunately, it seemed to be happening more and more lately and the tension was becoming untenable. He wished he could go back to how they were at the start, when everything was fun and easy and new. When had they lost that and started arguments over nothing?

His eyes closed in despair, he didn't notice two men approach him from behind. Not until the barrel of a gun was pushed into the small of his back, that is. A hand snaked out and gripped his right shoulder tightly. Napoleon bit back a yelp as his eyes snapped open.

‘Don’t yell; don’t draw attention; just drop the phone and walk.’ A low voice ordered in his ear, squeezing his shoulder painfully. Napoleon nodded his understanding slowly. His phone slipped from his grasp, clattering onto the concrete pavement. Wincing at the sound of smashed glass, he let himself by guided by the hand on his shoulder. He briefly thought about trying to run, when the other man took hold of his left elbow. A second gun prodded him harshly in the side. Napoleon bit back a hiss and glanced around. Nobody was paying them any attention, bustling past them to get out of the horrendous rain. The two men directed him down a dark alley. A white van was parked in the shadows, its back doors gaping.

Napoleon realised with a sinking feeling that this was no simple robbery, as he had previously considered. Deciding to take his chances, he opened his mouth to cry for help. A filthy hand jammed against his mouth, muffling any shouts. The hand gripping his elbow suddenly began an iron vice as the two men began to drag Napoleon towards the van.

This was not Napoleon’s first kidnapping, but he sensed this one was probably going to be far more hazardous for his health. He began kicking wildly, attempting to throw off his assailants as they hauled him to the doors of the van. His teeth sank into the soft flesh of the hand on his mouth. Blood welled in his mouth, and Napoleon fought the urge to choke.

The man holding his elbow lost his balance, yelping as he felt teeth latch onto his hand. With a heavy thud, both he and Napoleon crashed to the floor of the van. The man ended up on top of Napoleon, pinning his chest under a considerable weight. His hand was still smothering Napoleon’s mouth. At the same time, Napoleon’s flailing foot made contact with something hard. He heard a sickening crunch as he felt bone give way. His other abductor fell to the ground with a howl.

"Shut up you fucking idiot." The driver hissed, clambering out from the front. The man on the ground paid him no heed as he roared in agony. His gun dropped to the ground with a clatter. His hands cradled the knee, which was twisted at an awkward angle.

With a snarl, the driver pulled a gun from the back of his jeans. Too late, Napoleon realised what was about to happen. But by then the blood was splattering all over him. The gun pressed to his side was suddenly pushed against his own head. The driver unscrewed the silencer calmly, as if he had not just blown a man’s head away, and cast a glare at the stunned Napoleon.

"Not another fucking peep out of you." He growled. Napoleon was frozen. His eyes never left the mess that had been a man's skull just a moment before. The driver slammed the van doors shut, and with a screech of tires, the van was tearing out of the alley.

Slowly, he felt the pressure of the gun pressed against his head ease away. His kidnapper rolled away, the hand smothering any shouts for help loosening its grip. Napoleon didn't even dare to breathe. Then he was being rolled unto his stomach and his hands were jerked behind his back. Napoleon bit back a yelp as steel handcuffs bit into the soft flesh of his wrists.

Hands were grasping his legs, holding them tightly together. The unmistakeable tearing of duct tape sounded and soon Napoleon's ankles were securely bound. With a subtle tug, he tested his bonds. He wasn't going anywhere.

Finally, he was turned onto his back and the duct tape made another appearance. A filthy cloth was shoved into his mouth, which was then sealed layer by layer by the roll of tape being wound round his head.

Satisfied his victim was secure, the man settled himself comfortably against the wall. Napoleon could feel his gaze crawling over him as he struggled back. It was not an easy thing to do, tied up in the back of a moving vehicle, but eventually, Napoleon worked himself up into a sitting position. His head pounded where he had cracked it against the floor of the van, and he rested it against the side of the van. He felt like he was going to be sick. His stomach was in knots and he had to make himself take deep, slow breaths. It was already hard enough to force enough oxygen into his lungs around the musty cloth shoved halfway down his throat.

Napoleon hated to admit it, even just to himself, but he was scared. He didn't understand what was happening. What could these men possibly want with him? Was this to do with Illya? Oh God, Illya! What if the last conversation Napoleon ever had with Illya was an argument? No, he couldn’t think like that. Illya would find him. He blocked out all other thoughts and focused on just that. Illya would find him.

 

Illya had needed to do something to relieve the tension from his argument with Napoleon, so he grabbed his keys and Clark’s leash and set off into the rain. Now, absolutely freezing and soaked to the bone, he wondered if he had been punishing himself. He had been rather harsh with Napoleon; after all, it wasn’t his fault he was late. Illya himself had missed several of their dates due to work.  

The apartment was dark when he returned from his run. Illya furrowed his brows. Letting Clark dry himself on the Persian rug in front of the mounted flat screen (Napoleon would have a fit when he found out), he glanced at the clock on the stainless steel oven in the kitchen. Napoleon should have been home by now. Perhaps he was out sulking. Checking his phone, he was no missed calls. Fine. If Napoleon wanted to be a child and go off to pout, let him. Illya didn’t care.

Except Illya did care. After a quick shower and change of clothes, he grabbed his phone. He dialled Napoleon’s number with a sigh. Holding the phone to his ear, he began to root through the drawers for take-out menus. The phone rang and rang, before eventually going to voicemail. Illya frowned and tried again. The same result. So Napoleon _was_ avoiding him.

‘отродье (Brat).’ Illya muttered, temper rising again. Slamming the drawer shut, he stomped over to the floor length windows lining one wall and opened the door to the balcony. A chilling gust of wind swept into the apartment, scattering some papers which had been resting on a nearby coffee table, but at least the rain had died down. Illya eased the doors closed again.

He was restless, unable to stand still. Pottering around the apartment, he opened and closed drawers, thumbed through books, even refolded all the laundry. Time dragged by, and still Napoleon hadn’t returned. This was unlike him. Whenever they fought, Napoleon didn’t avoid the issue. He had no problem with making his thoughts on a matter very clear. It was Illya who was a big fan of ignoring a problem until eventually, it just went away. It rarely did. But this waiting around was intolerable. When his phone began to ring, Illya all but flung himself across the room to answer it, he was so bored. He answered it on the first ring.

‘Hello?’

‘We have your lover.’

Illya felt his insides turn to ice. He could hear his own heart beating, the thump of his blood hammering in his ears. A red mist descended over his vision. He took a deep breath and forced himself to pay attention as the smug voice continued speaking.

‘Bring Dr. Karim to Bearhaven Warehouse or we kill Mr. Solo. You have four hours.’

‘What proof do I have that you even have Napoleon?’ Illya ground out, racing to the bedroom. He headed straight towards the walk-in wardrobe and yanked out a chest from the shelf above a row of crisp white shirts. He had no intention of complying with this man’s demands, but he needed to keep him talking. The voice on the phone chuckled.

‘Very well, Mr. Kuryakin.’ Illya noted the man spoke with a refined English accent as he methodically loaded his .45, ignoring the shaking in his hands. He tucked it into the waistband of his washed-out denim jeans and curled his hands into tight fists. A grunt of pain sounded through the phone.

‘Illya?’ Napoleon’s voice was quivering slightly, but it was clear he was trying to remain composed. Illya could only imagine how scared he must be feeling. Oh God, what had Illya dragged Napoleon into?

‘Napoleon, are you alright? Did they hurt you?’ He snarled at the thought of those men touching _his_ Napoleon. He heard a hitch in Napoleon’s breathing, then a shaky exhale.

‘No, not reall-,’ Napoleon was suddenly cut off. The smug British accent was talking again.

‘Four hours, Mr. Kuryakin. Time is ticking.’ Illya was left listening to the dial tone. With a snarl, he checked the scope on his rifle. He loaded a duffle bag with enough ammunition to arm a small country, until it was straining to burst open. As he packed, his mind was racing a mile a minute. Dr. Karim was a leading expert in biochemical weaponry. Illya had been personally responsible for retrieving him from where he had been held prisoner in Syria by ISIS rebels, along with Gaby of course. But Illya didn’t even know where he was now, probably not even in New York. Waverly could have relocated him anywhere after Illya had delivered him into his hands.

Shouldering the heavy duffel bag, he let his lips curl into a vicious snarl. These men thought they could use Napoleon against him. Illya growled. They were about to learn how wrong they were.

Napoleon was freezing. When the van had finally stopped, they briefly untied him before stripping him down to his damp shirt and trousers, taking away even his shoes and socks. Next they cuffed his hands together, before locking a wide, black leather collar around his neck. A chain, firmly bolted to the concrete floor, was connected to the collar. Finally, they had tied a blindfold around his eyes, leaving him chained, shivering and blind.

He had tried to stay calm, when his abductor put a phone to his ear and told him to let his boyfriend know he was still alive. Mr. Owens, one of the two men had called him. Napoleon forced himself to not react when Mr. Owens had possessively buried his hand in Napoleon’s mussed curls, and focus on the sound of Illya’s voice. Illya would come for him, he told himself.

After Owens had hung up on Illya, he had stayed for a moment. The hand in his hair began to pet him, as if he was just an animal. Napoleon felt like he was going to be sick. Then with a chuckle, he was gone, ordering his men to keep an eye on the pup. Make sure he behaved, he had mocked. Napoleon bit back a retort. Now was not the time for his anger to surface.

The men had left Napoleon alone, talking quietly amongst themselves. In an attempt to keep warm, Napoleon had pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them tightly. The handcuffs rubbed the tender flesh of his wrists raw. His damp shirt clung to his clammy skin. Every time he shifted, the heavy chain clinked and tugged at his collar. It was humiliating. Napoleon blinked back a sudden onset of tears which threatened to pour.

This wasn’t his world, kidnappings and blackmail. This was Illya’s world. Napoleon almost wished he could make himself angry at Illya for getting him into this mess; just to feel anything other than frustration and fear. But he couldn’t. He loved him too much.

Napoleon was so distracted by his inner turmoil, he almost missed the hushed conversation cut off. Somewhere behind him, a door clicked shut. His head instinctively swivelled in the direction of the sound. He hated this, being kept quite literally in the dark.

‘Out.’ Owens ordered. Chairs shuffled on the cold, concrete floor, footsteps thudded. Somewhere off to the side, a door clattered shut. The warehouse was silent now, save for the quiet sound of water dripping. Napoleon’s ears strained for the tell-tale sound of footsteps but there was nothing. He squirmed under the scrutiny of the man lurking in the room.

And then there was a hand in his hair, tugging at his curls until his neck was bared. Napoleon couldn’t help it; he flinched. There was a cruel chuckle as lips ghosted by his ear. The hairs on Napoleon’s neck were standing up. The heavy chain clinked. Almost without noticing, he’d tried to drag himself as far away from the hand in his hair as he could.

‘I can understand why Mr. Kuryakin would be so taken with you, Napoleon.’ Owens murmured in his ear. The smell of stale sweat wafted off him. ‘You are a _gorgeous_ creature.’ Napoleon felt teeth nip at his earlobe and shuddered. He could barely breathe; his chest felt tight. This was too much.

He raised his elbow and jerked it back with all the force he could. From the pained groan, it looked like he had hit his mark. Ripping his hair free of the man’s hand, Napoleon scrambled away as far as the chain bolted to the floor allowed. He choked for a second as his leash grew taut.

The darkness was pressing in around him; suffocating him. His hands came up and tore the blindfold away from his eyes. Blinking in the harsh overhead lights, he saw his abductor for the first time. Heavyset, mid-forties at a guess. His hair had begun to grey and his hairline had receded. He was hunched over, hands cradling his crotch. His watery green eyes blazed with unbridled fury.

‘You little bitch!’ He snarled, lunging forward. Napoleon’s eyes grew wide and suddenly there was a heavy weight pinning him to the floor. His head cracked against the rough concrete floor, and Napoleon saw stars. Coughing heavily, he fought to catch his breath. Fumbling hands were at his shirt, yanking it open. Buttons scattered wildly and Napoleon could hear the sound of fabric tearing. He tried twisting, but Owen’s thighs had him in a vice grip. Remembering a trick Illya had once used on him, he bucked up with his hips. With a grunt, his assailant is successfully dislodged.

Napoleon rolled onto his stomach and tried to crawl away. Suddenly, the chain on his collar jerked taut, choking him. A heavy weight settled on the small of his back, pinning him down once more. His cuffed hands scrabbled uselessly at the concrete. A hand tightened in his hair and jerked his head back.

‘You’re going to regret fighting me, you little slut.’ It’s then Napoleon felt the unmistakeable hardness grinding into his lower back. ‘I’m going to enjoy myself fucking you.’ The sound of a belt unbuckling sent Napoleon into a frenzy as he struggled all the harder. His mind went blank with panic. All he could think was no, no, NO!

‘Get off him. Now.’ Napoleon could have cried. Craning his neck, he caught a glimpse of Illya in his periphery. The hand tugging his curls pulled harder and Napoleon was hauled up and back onto his knees. An arm wrapped around his chest, and twisted him so that Napoleon was between him and Illya’s gun.

‘Where is Dr. Karim?’ The man was panicking, that much was clear, but he was trying to keep his voice cool and collected. His eyes darted around the warehouse but his guards were nowhere to be seen.

‘I already dispatched your men. It was remarkably easy. You could say I was… motivated.’ Illya’s eyes scanned the length of Napoleon’s body, searching for injuries. Napoleon’s weary eyes met his gaze. All the adrenaline that had hummed through his body seeped away, leaving Napoleon exhausted. Illya gestured with his gun.

‘Drop him. Right now. And maybe I don’t kill you.’ Mr. Owens’ arm tightened around Napoleon’s chest. It was making it hard to breathe. It was clear the man felt cornered. Napoleon could feel him trembling.

‘I want a guarantee you’ll let me live!’ He shouted. Illya ignored him, taking a step forward.

‘Three.’ Illya stated. He watched the confusion flash through man’s eyes, then the fear when he realised what Illya had meant.

‘If you shoot me, you’ll have to shoot him!’

‘Two.’ Another step.

‘Here, here, take him!’ Napoleon was all but thrown forward. He caught himself before he collapsed onto the ground. Mr. Owens scrabbled backwards, clambering to his feet. He raised his hands in surrender. Illya gestured again with the gun, pointing him towards the nearby wall.

‘Don’t move.’ He ordered him, before turning his attention to Napoleon, who hadn’t moved an inch. He just knelt there, frozen, eyes glued to the ground.

A hand settled on his shoulder and Napoleon flinched. Jerking his head up, Illya’s concerned blue eyes were all he could concentrate on for a moment. He was kneeling beside him, arms loosely held out but looking too nervous to touch him. With a strangled sob, Napoleon all but threw himself at Illya, letting the taller man wrap his arms around him. Cradled against Illya’s chest, Napoleon pressed his face into the crook of Illya’s neck. He focused on the sound of Illya’s heartbeat as he fought to get his breathing under control.

‘It’s alright Napoleon, you’re ok, just breathe.’ Illya murmured, tenderly rubbing circles into his back. Napoleon took a shaky breath and pulled back.

‘You’re right,’ he swallowed, steeling himself. He smoothed back his hair out of his face. ‘I’m ok. I’m ok.’ He didn’t know whether he was trying to convince Illya or himself. The handcuffs rattled as he held his wrists out to Illya.

‘How about we get these off me?’ Scanning the room, Illya spotted a pile of keys on a rickety table nearby. Keeping one eye peeled on the man against the wall, he retrieved the keys and set about freeing Napoleon, first the cuffs and then that horrific collar.

Napoleon couldn’t have been more relieved when Illya had peeled the collar off from around his neck. Flinging it to the side in disgust, Illya’s fingers traced the ring of bruises already blooming on Napoleon’s neck. He gently pressed soft kisses to the purpling flesh. Napoleon gave a slight wince.

‘I’m sorry,’ Illya murmured. He was apologizing for more than the bruises, and they both knew it. Napoleon’s hand cradled Illya’s face, thumb tracing along his jaw.

‘It wasn’t your fault,’ Napoleon whispered. Their lips brushed as Napoleon gave him a chaste kiss.

‘I should have protected you. You are hurt because of me.’ Illya argued, helping Napoleon to his feet and steadying him. Napoleon gripped his forearm tightly.

‘You came for me.’ He said simply. Illya’s eyes darkened.

‘I will _always_ come for you.’ He promised, pressing his lips to the inflamed skin of Napoleon’s inner wrists.

Illya then turned his attention to the man pressed to the wall. Storming over, he shoved his knee into his stomach. As he gasped for air, Illya flipped him over his shoulder and on to the floor. His head smacked against the hard concrete as he landed with a crash. Illya whipped out his gun, shoving it in the man’s face. His free hand wrapped around his throat. The man spluttered for air.

‘What made you think you could touch _my_ Napoleon?’ Illya growled, his voice tight with rage. ‘What made you think you could lay your disgusting hands on him, and I would not kill you for it?’ The man’s hands scrabbled uselessly against the iron vice squeezing his throat.

‘Illya, stop!’ Napoleon yelled. His hand closed around the barrel of the gun and jerked it away. Illya stared at him, eyes full of confusion. Napoleon did _not_ wish Illya to kill this scum?

‘Napoleon, you don’t understand.’ Illya tried to reason with him, hand crushing the bastard’s throat even tighter. ‘This man does not deserve to live. He _touched_ you, Napoleon.’ Napoleon snarled.

‘You think I don’t know that Illya. I understand better than you ever could!’ He roared. Illya started at this sudden display of anger, releasing the bastard’s throat. He spluttered, gasping for air. Illya ignored him in favour of catching Napoleon’s hand. Napoleon jerked his hand away, taking a step back.

‘Don’t touch me.’ He snarled. ‘I’m not a possession, Illya! I’m not a toy that another child stole from you. I am a goddamn person! It was me he put his hands on. Me, he collared and humiliated. Me, he tried to-.’ Napoleon exhaled slowly, his anger leaving him as viciously as it came.

‘It’s my decision, Illya,’ He was just so tired. He held out a hand to Illya.

‘Just take me home,’ He pleaded, voice barely more than a whisper. Illya’s resolve crumbled to dust. He ignored the extended hand, electing instead to wrap his arms around Napoleon, enveloping the shorter man in a tight hug. Napoleon literally _melted_ into Illya. Illya cradled him, running his hands up and down Napoleon’s back. God, he was freezing.

He sent a deathly glare at the pathetic excuse of a man panting on the floor. This man had done this to Napoleon. Scared him, hurt him. He made a decision. Pressing a soft kiss against the top of Napoleon’s head, he shucked off his jacket and wrapped it around his shoulders. Napoleon tugged it closer, humming pleasantly from the warmth.

Illya stepped away, reluctant to let go of Napoleon, but he had to. He yanked the man on the floor up by the scruff of his neck, dragging him towards the centre of the warehouse. He ignored the spluttered protests of the scum as he tossed him onto the concrete.

‘Strip.’ He ordered, his voice cold, tone brooking no argument. The man’s eyes grew comically wide.

‘Illya?’ Napoleon asked from behind him, uncertain. Illya spared him a reassuring glance. Napoleon’s eyebrows were furrowed in confusion. Turning back to the waste of breath kneeling on the floor, he pointed his gun right between his eyes. God, how he wished he could pull the trigger.

‘Strip.’ This time, the man complied. Movements sluggish, he toed off his shoes, pulled off his socks and tugged his knitted jumper over his head. A pointed glare from Illya had him reluctantly peeling off his beige slacks and tossing them with the rest. He shivered in the freezing night air. Scooping them from where they had lain abandoned on the ground, Illya tossed the handcuffs at him.

‘Put them on.’ He demanded. The man gulped visibly.

‘I can pay you. I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams.’

‘Do not make me tell you again.’ Illya growled. With a strangled sob, the man fastened the cuffs around his wrists. Illya tucked the gun back into the waistband of his jeans, kneeling down. Examining the man’s bonds, he ratcheted the cuffs a few notches tighter. Satisfied, he let a sadistic grin stretch across his face. He pointed at the collar lying abandoned on the floor inches away, chain still connected.

‘Put it on.’ The man’s face blanched. Shaking, his hands reached out, pinching it between two fingers as if it were a deadly snake. For a moment, it looked as if he was going to rebel, but a look at the deathly calm on Illya’s face stopped him. His fingers shook as they wrapped the collar around his neck. Illya took over, gracefully slipping the lock on and clicking it shut. Gathering the keys and clothes, he settled them on the ground just outside of the man’s reach. He turned to Napoleon, trembling even while wrapped in Illya’s jacket, eyes fixed on the collar.

‘Napoleon,’ Illya called, startling him out of his stupor. He fixed what he hoped was a gentle, soothing smile on his face. ‘Time to go home.’ Napoleon visibly relaxed at his words. Hand in hand, they ignored the shouted protests of the man chained to the floor. Illya would call Gaby, ask her to take care of it from the car.

Or maybe he’d tell her in the morning. There was no hurry.

Illya was worried about Napoleon. He hadn’t said a word on the entire drive home, gone directly to the bathroom when they arrived home and been in there for nearly an hour. He knocked hesitantly on the bathroom door.

‘Napoleon?’ He called out. There was no reply. Pressing his ear to the wooden door, he could hear the sound of the shower still running. He tried the door handle. The door swung open smoothly. Steam billowed around the room as Illya entered.

Napoleon had his back to the door. His arms were extended as he braced himself against the slate-grey tiles of the shower, his head bowed. His skin was a vibrant shade of red, and Illya could see the remnants of what _had_  been a full bar of soap lying abandoned at his feet. Illya’s heart dropped to his stomach.

Kicking off his shoes, he peeled his black Henley over his head and tossed it to the side. Napoleon’s shoulders tensed at the sound of Illya sliding back the glass shower door but otherwise didn’t move. Illya curled his arms around Napoleon’s waist, ignoring the scalding water seeping through his jeans. He rested his head between Napoleon’s shoulder blades, just listening to the sound of his heartbeat. He began to murmur softly in Russian, a litany of soothing pet names. He felt the tension physically melt away from Napoleon as he slowly relaxed into Illya’s arms. There was a choking sound and suddenly Napoleon was turning in his arms, burying his head in Illya’s chest.

‘I’m sorry.’ Of all the things Napoleon could have said, that was not what Illya had expected. Tilting Napoleon’s chin up with his thumb, he gazed at the turmoil raging in those gorgeous blue eyes. Illya met him with confusion clear in his own eyes. Napoleon exhaled shakily.

‘I don’t know why I’m such a mess. Nothing even happened, really. But…’ Napoleon trailed off, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

‘But?’ Illya prompted.

‘I can’t stop thinking about what could have happened.’ Napoleon confessed. ‘He had me pinned down and I couldn’t do anything to stop him.’ His voice lowered, so quiet Illya almost missed it ‘I can still feel his hands.’

Illya was lost for words. He didn’t know what to say. What could he say? What could he possibly say that would wipe away that man’s words, his touch? There were no words. But there was something Illya could do.

Napoleon started slightly as Illya lowered his lips to his neck, mindful of the vivid ring of bruises blossoming there. He began to press gentle kisses down Napoleon’s chest, back up, down both his arms. Napoleon’s breathing became laboured, his throat tight as Illya used his lips to wash away the feeling of _his_ hands touching him. All Napoleon felt in their aftermath was the barest scratch of Illya’s lips, the barely-there whisper of breath on his skin. It was ok, he was ok. Illya came for him. For the first time that night, Napoleon felt it in his bones. He was _safe_. He was home, and he was safe and he was loved. 

**Author's Note:**

> An OMC attempts to rape Napoleon. He is stopped before he can, but obviously Napoleon is trying to cope in the aftermath.
> 
> Alaskan Malamute puppies are actually too cute for this world.
> 
> As always, kudos=love :) :) :)


End file.
